Just Following the Rhythm
by Simone Millien
Summary: In the heat of war they find their solace in the arms of the other, and discover things can be simple if you just let it. Love might not be the reason to keeping living, or the magical solvent to life's eternal mysteries…but it's a wonderful feeling, maybe that's enough.
1. Chapter 1

He heard him before he saw him. Sensed him long before that. Nearly nineteen years of watching his back against possible attack made him wary. No one sneaks up on him now…unless he wants them to. In this case he does. Oh, how he does.

He felt him getting closer stealthily, and he smiled to himself.

Their relationship was odd, to say the least. Largely because it was so unexpected and therefore, as all unpredictable good things are said to be, destined to fail. He suspected that at first that was one of the reasons it hadn't failed. They were both tired of doing what was expected. So they secretly began reveling in their disobedience of conformation. And then somehow while they weren't looking it stopped being a game. Now…now it just felt right. They weren't being rebellious any longer, they were simply following the rhythm of things: the beat of a heart, the migration of a flock, the rise of the sun.

The footsteps were getting louder now. He'd thrown caution away. He must have been alone.

Draco remained passive, eyes closed, breath coming in slow deep increments, and concentrated on his heartbeat and the sound of those footsteps mirroring the 'thump' 'thump' 'thump' pulse of his heart. Meditation: the only useful thing Trelawney had taught in the entire time he had known her. The one and only thing, other than Harry himself, that had kept him sane through the chaos of war and choices.

He waited patiently for the other boy to kneel against him, a solid reliability in an unstable world. He welcomed the wait if only because he could anticipate the presence that much more, and feel that happy bubble that announced, somewhat in awe even now, yes, he has someone to anticipate.

Draco regretted nothing from the moment he had accepted Harry's lips to the moment he had handed over his heart. He regretted nothing, especially not their secrecy. People made things harder than it had to be. They told no one and held on to love without all its complications. And really what they were doing wasn't all that complicated: they were just following the rhythm for as long as they could.

Hearts and fears and lives at stake every moment of every day. Time becomes precious when you have less to waste. The small things get shoved out of the picture.

Son of a Death-Eater. Hero of the universe. What did any of that mean really in the scheme of things? They were just titles, names, little boxes people stuffed themselves into because they had far too much time on their hands and no talent for whittling.

Their relationship started simply, as simply as their six years of animosity had begun. No life-long obsession, no night of bonding, no rescue in the nick of time. Just a look, a challenge, a gauntlet thrown. Gauntlet accepted, game switched, rules thrown to the wayside. The rest, as it were, was history. And just when they thought they had life figured out they found they had been missing far too much for far long: their other half.

A hot weight leaned against him…finally. The only acknowledgement he gave was a stuttering of his heartbeat. He strongly suspected Harry knew about this small weak point in his defenses.

"Earth to Draco," a voice whispered in his ear, breath dancing playfully across his skin. "Draaaaaaaaco."

He feigned ignorance, fought the smile that was attempting to curl on his lips, and continued to breath deeply with his eyes shut. Holding off just a little longer. Enjoying the moment without the complication of words.

"Malfoy, I know you hear me." His voice was irritated now.

Draco was finding it harder to repress that smile. He still found it remarkably entertaining getting under Potter's skin. Only sometime towards the end of sixth year the reason for causing the reaction changed from platonic sadistic pleasure to sexual sadistic pleasure. He found Harry's irritated flush positively irresistible. Unfortunately, Harry knew it.

The weight leaned forward, arms sneaked across his chest, fingers danced down to his waist, back up to his arms, down the front of his shirt, a hot breath fluttering across his eyelids. Draco felt a trail of fire pass along him everywhere those fingers brushed. Then the mouth descended: hot and wet, and eager.

When he could breathe again Draco turned in Harry's arms and glared. "You fight dirty, Potter."

"I learned from the best."

A smile flickered across his face, "So you do listen to me."

"Occasionally. You prattle on so much I can't help but tune in now and again."

Draco rolled his eyes and unconsciously scooted closer. "Goodie-two-shoes."

"Snob."

"Golden-Boy."

"Rich brat."

"Potty"

"Ferret"

"Friend of the Weasel."

Harry snorted. "Is that the best you can do?"

Draco's face turned placid. From vault of emotion to iceman in three seconds flat, Harry would have been worried if only he didn't know that lack of look meant Draco was planning something devious. He had learned a lot in the past two and a half years. Part of it was not all plans were to be resisted. Sometimes it was good to just let go.

Draco reached up with his mouth and captured Harry's lips between his own. They opened promptly for him, tongue moving inward into the welcoming cavern.

Determinedly exploring Harry's mouth, he grabbed both of Harry's wrists in a firm grip and deftly flipped him over on his back, then placed one leg strategically across his flat stomach, broke the kiss with a vacuum slurping sound and sat up. He sat their smirking smugly for a moment, slid his body further down Harry's until they were perfectly aligned in all the right places and Harry was gasping, and then twisted his hips.

Once Harry could breathe he threw Draco a glare, eyes shining brightly, "You fight dirty, Malfoy."

Draco's smirk turned into an evil grin. "I learned from the best. Trollop."

"Only for you."

Draco's grin widened as he lowered his mouth to Harry's neck, whispering, "only me."

Harry was too busy moaning to respond.

Their bodies moved together emulating what their minds had already accepted, following the rhythm and enjoying every moment of it for as long as they could.

Draco didn't know about Harry but he planned on that being a very very long time, fuck complications. After all everyone knew that in the end a Malfoy always got what he wanted.

End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

He grew up in a small town world, surrounded by big name folk with small time game. His father was the owner of them all. It didn't ignite any sort of feeling in him, pride or otherwise, this was simply the way things were. Life as he knew it. Smiles that frowned, teeth that glittered red, and caressing hands that felt like pain.

Since birth, he knew how to get anything he wanted with just a look. A smile, a sneer…if the timing was right it all achieved the same. A properly placed compliment, a well aimed insult. Honey for bees, vinegar for flies. He put on a mask and hid his heart from the devils that clawed for innocence. He wouldn't give it to them. Became the prince when he had to, the invisible man, the virgin, the statue, the clown. Soon he forgot what he really looked like. It was vaguely missed…soon not even that.

He only felt safe at sunrise, away from the daggers at his back and the sweet words designed to fool.

He only felt real at twilight, wind and night caressing against him like a lover's touch. How he imagined a lover's touch should feel.

But it was only the bright heat and punishing chill rain of mid-day that moved him.

He grew up to be a big name man in a big town world. He married the prettiest, and the coldest: a childhood betrothed with a mouth shaped of crêpe and blood as pure as sin. A cruel fairy with a heart made of an ice called indifference.

He had glitter and glamour and gold but he was empty inside. He lusted for something for which he had no name. He filled it with starlight, turned towards the comfort of a silky voice, promises made to be unmade, a firm controlling hand…It felt like mid-day. Then…then it felt like suffering and he was ashamed to say he was beginning to forget the difference.

He didn't mourn when it was taken away. He never mourned, it was a waste of time.

The fairy with the violet eyes and ruby red lips gave him a child one cold December night. A boy: small, and perfect, and untouched with just the right amount of everything. He was amazed he had helped with this creation. Awed and frightened. He did not trust it: all true devils had angel charm.

The infant grew, plump and perfect and jovial with laughing grey eyes. He touched the baby's lips and they curled into a smile, a real one. He almost returned it. Almost. So he pulled away.

The baby grew into a child. When he watched it was with a careful eye, careful and fearful. He wanted so much for this devil child. He didn't know where to begin. His pride demanding he hide his heart, his love for the little angelic satan demanding the child do the same, and the small part of sanity he still claimed weeping for them both.

Years passed while he trained his gaze elsewhere, part there part not, a fixture in the walls of Malfoy Mansion but a floating unsubstantial fixture. His master with the silk voice had returned. His need for protection had increased. He existed as a living undead. Somehow the child grew into an adolescent, the adolescent to a man.

One day he looked up into that man's eyes…and saw himself. That night he cried.

The next he did the only thing he could while there was still a chance, and sanity still resided somewhere inside himself: he pushed the man away hard.

"So this is love," he said softly, then choked back a dry laugh that felt more like a sob.

Draco's flat was sparsely furnished although it didn't have to be. His father had not kicked him out without first providing him with enough to live, given by way of his mother because they both knew that was the only way Draco would take it.

The monthly allowance he still received from his father collected dust in a Gringotts' vault. Pride wouldn't permit him to use it.

It was his job at the ministry that paid well enough to satisfy the Malfoy taste for the expensive and the extravagant. Draco chose not to indulge in it. The items he did have were tasteful and high quality, but they were not silver, diamond encrusted goblets from which he drank as a child, nor fine silk linens imported from exclusive China factories. He started out furnishing it that way, but Harry took one look around and refused to sit, afraid he'd break something. Draco had smiled fondly and called him a 'tasteless pauper'. Harry still refused, so they were sent back, or simply given away. He wasn't one for whispered endearments. He expressed his love through actions, not words. It was just who he was. And although his lover rarely spent the night, in fear that he would be 'missed' – in the 'call the ministry Harry's been kidnapped' sense of the term - by his roommates, when Harry was present Draco believed it was appreciated.

Harry rested his head against the headboard of Draco's bed, eyes fixated on the ceiling. It was clean just like the rest of the flat. Spotless and smooth. Harry smiled weakly to himself thinking fondly, 'the poor neat freak', while his hands moved in firm circles against the flesh of his lover. Draco's muscles bunched under his fingers, so tense that his neck felt like iron.

There was no need to ask what was troubling him. Harry already knew. Tomorrow Draco would be called to testify against his father. He hadn't spoken to the elder Malfoy in nearly two years, since graduation. Draco refused to even talk about him. Clamming up and drifting into a silent funk whenever he was mentioned even in the most casual of conversations. Harry no longer asked. He'd work through it in his own time. Now he would have to face his father for the first time since he had been mercilessly abandoned for no reason at all…in order to help convict him of a number of serious crimes.

Harry held him tightly, hands working Draco's neck and shoulder muscles, head cradled in his lap and listened with his heart. Draco didn't hold serious conversations with words, he conversed through body language.

'Tell me everything's going to be okay.' This position asked.

"Everything's going to be okay," Harry responded instantly.

'Tell me you love me.'

"I love you, more than life."

'Tell me that will never change'

His embrace grew tighter. "And that will never change. Never. I'll be with you every step of the way."

Draco shifted closer in his arms. 'Tell me I can do this'

"You can do this, I know you can."

There was no response.

Draco loved his father. Harry knew this as a base instinct, something that was fact but not always understood. During school every third phrase out of Draco's mouth had been 'my father' uttered as one word, the one didn't exist without the other 'myfather', and uttered with such a boasting pride that Harry sincerely doubted the elder Malfoy deserved. He knew being disowned hurt in a way he couldn't comprehend. It was a shock for everyone when Lucius threw Draco out of his house without any reason. Draco maintained that they were on good terms at the time. It came as a shock for the entire wizarding world that followed the infamous exploits of the Malfoy family, which were quite a few people reluctant as they were to admit it, and it came as a betrayal for Draco. He could still see the pain there in his eyes, the way he held his head to the side, the way his hands clenched…the way his jaw trembled when he thought Harry wasn't watching. He still remembered the fresh hurt and shock glazing Draco's eyes into unseeing silver orbs right after the incident.

And now…now this.

"It's okay to cry," Harry added in a whisper, hand moving up to brush through smooth platinum locks.

Draco buried his face in Harry's thigh and held on, but he didn't cry.

Harry closed his eyes and cried for him. Hermione and Ron would just have to wonder where he was for one night.


	3. Chapter 3

The name was wheezed beyond recognition. Exhaled sharply on a gust of furious pride and unacknowledged pain…and shock. Well yes, Harry thought, it would be a shock considering… He looked terrible, but confident at the same time. Beaten but not broken. Flooded but not drowned. 'The Malfoys were nothing if not prideful'. It was said in way of insult, yet it was true. Stunningly, frighteningly, beautifully, straight to the core true. The Malfoys were nothing if not prideful. And here before him, wheezing and half-mad – but with a presence that still strove to intimidate, and succeeded quite well—sat the perfect example.

Lucius Annaeus Malfoy

Father of one by blood only, husband of one in name alone, friend to none. He was not known for mercy, or understanding, or wanting these two emotions reflected back to him, but for Draco's sake Harry was going to try. It would be hard but he was going to try.

The elder Malfoy sat serenely, eyes unseeing, unfocused, staring blankly at the wall behind Harry's head.

His jaw was swollen slightly. What was once so perfectly shaped was now twisted and jarred, a clear creamy complexion stained dark-purple with bruises, and mottled dark-red with dried blood.

Harry sighed. Both sides had lost loved ones in this war. Aurors weren't immune to loss. Nor were they immune to the feelings loss inspired. Hurt. Depression. …Rage.

Rage and pain.

Malfoy had been one of the luckier Death Eaters apprehended. He at least had all his parts in working order. Harry suspected his name had something to do with it. The Malfoys were revered in certain circles, feared in others, and simply begrudgingly respected in the rest. People like the Weasleys were outnumbered in their honest public opinion of the Malfoy family.

Harry ran a sweaty palm through his short ruffled hair. He was never good at speaking when the time truly called for it. He was slow to start, hesitant and self-conscious. Seventeen years under the stifling care of the Dursleys, always required to be silent, there but not there, present but not present…it was hard to break away from that. And when he did the words came out unbidden, too much too fast, leaving him breathless and flushed knowing that in this he had failed yet again.

"I've come to speak to you of Draco," he paused for a moment. Wondering if instead he should have said "your son" or "the younger Malfoy". Harry forced his own gaze to watch that of Lucius Malfoy's, even if it would not be returned, forced a blush from rushing to his cheeks. Lucius knew nothing of their relationship for his own good as well as Draco's, feeling guilty about this was stupid. So he wouldn't.

He just wouldn't.

"You probably already know what about. The trial is coming up…" he trailed off with a sigh. The elder Malfoy remained silent. Aside from that one initial gasp—shocked gasp - of "Potter," Malfoy said nothing. "Potter". It was hissed with a finality like it was spoken on a dying breath. In all likelihood it just might be his dying word.

Harry shook that thought away, glancing down to his curled hands against the table top, teeth worrying his lower-lip: it was a nervous habit he had picked up in recent years.

"He's a lot like you, you know," he said softly, speaking to himself. Harry didn't see the flinch that formed on the elder Malfoy's broken face, nor the quick blurry wince of a feeling flash across that same face, by the time he had looked up it was gone again replaced with a dull unseeing look.

"They said you just appeared out of the blue. They're assuming you were turning yourself over. Were you Mr. Malfoy?"

He received no response.

"If you were, the best thing you could do now would be to admit to your crimes when the time comes."

Silence.

"Draco is going to have to testify against you if you don't."

The silence extended indefinitely. Harry could feel a burning void of anger settle in his chest, heart-burn, acid backwash, rage, helplessness, frustration.

"You love him, don't you? He's your son. That's why you sent him away, isn't it? You were afraid it would be too late for him.

"You think it's too late for you but it's not. You still can save yourself in every way that matters. Don't make him get on that stand and testify against you. Draco still loves you very much and I think, I know it would kill him to have to-"

Harry broke off and stood abruptly. This wasn't working. He was never good with speaking. Now was not going to be any different. He was a fool for coming.

He spared one more glance in the magical bound and beaten – but never broken- wizard's direction, and tossed back one softly whispered but vehemently uttered sentence before leaving him alone in his cell : "You can save yourself by saving your son. If nothing else you owe him that."

There was once a time when words made no difference to him. Once when he could have looked them in their relative faces and not flinched away. He would never be the brave one. He had no need for soothing utterances shuddering over a fragile ego. He would never be the hero. He had no need for sharp truths that tore and built in one blow. Never the prince in shining armor galloping on a noble stead. No need for words, or opinions, or truths but his own.

But now…now his words were bitter.

He only felt safe at sunrise, away from the daggers at his back and the sweet words designed to fool.

But now the dawn held no reprieve.

He only felt real at twilight, wind and night caressing against him like a lover's touch. How he imagined a lover's touch should feel.

But now the night knew no serenity.

He was only moved by the bright heat and punishing chill rain of mid-day.

But now they poured through him and there was still sadness. It washed away nothing.

'You can save yourself by saving your son. You owe him that.'

He was no hero. He owed no one anything. And the time for saving had passed, if there had ever been at time at all. So now why did those words slice through him like his own never could?

They arrived just a little too late.

A smile that wasn't in the least jovial stretched his features.

Soon it would be too late for anything. He was not surprised to find himself saddened that they would not even know it. Too much had past to be surprised. His death would be in a few hours, soon after that theirs, and his soul would be the least of anyone's concern.

His thoughts revolved around bitterness, indecision and the torment between holding on to all that he had known -protecting the crystal ball of his pride—and protecting the fair-haired cherubic devil son of his. The time for indecision had past…but here he was.

He closed his eyes, held his breath, and prayed.


	4. Chapter 4

"How long."

"Almost three years."

"Who knows?"

"Seamus found out the end of seventh year. He told Lavender Brown, his girlfriend of the time."

"And Neville, and Dean? Do they know?"

"Yes. I had to tell them…they were light sleepers."

Harry waited with bated breath for Ron Weasley to process this information. This wasn't remotely the way he had planned on spending the rest of his morning, and after that draining confrontation with Lucius Malfoy no more than fifteen minutes earlier, and the trial later on that same day looming over his head, Harry felt sure that he must have been quite evil in a previous life. He must've been a cannibal or something. There was simply no other explanation for it than that.

An odd twitch had taken control of Ron's left eye. Harry sighed and collapsed into the couch, which only caused the youngest male Weasley to loom further over him. Hermione, still a ball of nervous shocked energy, flitted from living room to kitchen and back…again, hands occupied with cleaning. She sent Harry another one of 'those' rare looks, a cross between hurt, disappointment, and an internal war between her natural want to know _anything_ and her common sense screaming that she really really did not want to know _this_. Or remember seeing her best friend stark naked and wrapped around the equally nude body of one Draco Malfoy. He was just thankful they both had been too worn out to do anything other than snuggle that morning. Now Hermione walking in on _that_-

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Definitely a cannibal. Maybe a telemarketer.

"Seamus, Lavender, Neville, Dean," Ron counted off calmly, too calmly "…who else?"

"Hagrid knows." Harry swallowed. "And so does Sirius"

"Well, weren't we the little chatterbox."

Hermione, back from one of her many trips from the kitchen, rested a reassuring hand on Ron's shoulder. "Ron?"

"Oh I'm not hurt. My best-friend has just been cheating on our friendship for the last three years with our worse enemy. Lying to my face, going off to snog Rosemary's baby behind my back, I'm perfectly fine with it."

Harry decided against mentioning that it wasn't quite three years. Their anniversary wasn't until next month. "He's hardly our worse enemy, Ron," he commented instead, "there is Voldemort to consider."

"Second."

"The makers of 'Rinse away' wizarding brand paint thinner/shampoo..."

"Third then."

"You're forgetting the years with Snape."

"Fourth."

"Trelawney and her pro-"

Ron threw up his hands and began pacing, taking a page out of Hermione's book. "He's on the list then! Okay? I'm not sure where but he's on the list."

Harry bit back a tired grin, literally chewing gently on his bottom lip, and with a pleading note to his tone appealed to Hermione's sense of sensitivity. "He needs our support right now."

Turning back to Ron he concluded, "And I lo—I care for him very deeply." He had enough sense left to realize using the 'L' word in relation to Draco Malfoy in Ron's presence would probably be the wrong tactic right now.

"He's not the same person he was all those years ago. He's changed. He's not perfect but he has changed."

Ron stopped pacing and crossed his arms over his, now very broad, chest. "Prove it."

Harry heaved himself off the couch and placed his glasses back on. "Alright I will."

Draco griped loudly to himself on the way to Harry's flat. After all, irritation was acceptable, nervousness, however, was not. He had never been there before, that alone was enough reason to feel…"irritated", add on the mutual dislike between Weasley, Granger, and himself, his initial stress for the day with having to testify against his own father and he doubted anyone would blame him for backing out. But he didn't because this was important to Harry. And otherwise he'd have to hear that annoying -"You're part of my life Draco, and they _are_ my life. It would be nice if I could have you all in the same neighborhood without worrying whether or not someone is going to figure out something. Anyway, you're going to have to get along eventually, it might as well be now, right?"- lecture.

The damned muggle-born just had to pick today of all days to play nanny.

There were protective wards in place so they had to Apparate part-way and walk the rest. Standing outside the door, Draco felt that flutter of "irritation" twist his stomach into a knot and cause a fine layer of sweat to break out on his palms. He couldn't remember a time where he had been this …"irritated." He would lose a father in a few hours time, he didn't want to lose Harry too.

"Tell me again why you couldn't have just lied, Potter?" Draco groused.

"I can't lie to them."

"You have been for three years."

"No…I've been evading for three years. I never lied."

"That's a cock-and-bull story if I ever heard one."

Harry smiled and pressed a quick kiss to the corner of Draco's scowling mouth. "I knew you'd understand. Don't worry he just wants to meet the new you. Everything will be fine."

Harry took his hand and squeezed reassuringly. Draco squeezed back once before dropping it.

Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe…

They entered, Draco took one look at the thinly veiled expression of utter hatred residing behind a forced smile on Weasley's face, and regretted ever agreeing to come at all, ever. Of course they wouldn't accept him. Of course they'd be against his relationship with Harry. How could he have ever fooled himself into believing otherwise? How could he have allowed Harry to talk him into believing it? All his old fears came flooding back. In the end Harry would choose Weasley over him, again. That's the way things were meant to be wasn't it? A Weasley over a Malfoy. Weasley was his first friend, his first confidant, the first person that had shown him love (as a friend, and later as a brother) not only in the wizarding world but in any world…how could Draco compete with that? Their whole bloody family was Harry's surrogate family! That certainly wasn't anything Draco could offer him.

He hadn't seen Weasley in over a year, but he remembered all his reasons for disliking him straight away.

Weasley's 'grin' stretched to new widths and began resembling a primal snarl, urged into it by Harry's imploring gaze.

Draco also found there were a few more he could dredge up.

"Malfoy," the tall red-head said stiffly through clenched teeth.

Draco looked him over coolly, "Weasel."

Harry frowned. "Draco come on now," he whispered, nudging him a little in the side, "You said you'd be civil."

"Why should I be forced to play nice with a pauper?" This was said louder than necessary to make sure Weasley heard him nice and clear with those ridiculously disproportionately small ears of his.

"Draco…"

"Even with all your money your parents couldn't buy you manners, could they, Ferret?" Oh good he heard.

"Ron…"

"I only grace my charms on those who are worthy of them." Draco took a moment to survey Ron's wear, " Your mother still knitting your clothes out of left-over tinsel, then, I see."

"Draco!"

"You leave my mother out of this you good for nothing lazy little brat!"

"Ron!"

"You left out lying, deceitful, cold-hearted git, Weasel. I'm disappointed."

"Draco!"

"I was trying to be polite for Harry's sake, a subject on which I'm sure you know nothing about."

"Ron Stop-!"

"Similar to that of your parents knowledge of budgeting and birth-control, and how the two are not independent of each other."

"Draco!"

With a growl Weasley launched himself onto the smaller blonde. Draco responded instantly, arms raised into fists.

"Oh for the love of-!"

Both Hermione and Harry shouted out a curse simultaneously, wands aimed at their partners, which resulted in the premature end, by way of unconsciousness, of what would have ended up a blood bath.

Harry pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead and just held it there for a moment. Then he sat down heavily on the couch and shut his eyes tightly. He just needed a moment to regroup.

"Well…That went well, didn't it." Hermione commented dryly.

"They're both breathing at least. Relatively whole and intact"

"Harry…you know I respect your decisions in most things, and your right to have a personal life…but…well…are you certain he's changed?"

He nodded, eyes still closed. "Yes. This was…well he just needed to burn off a little steam. The trial's today and everything…"

Hermione nodded and flopped down beside him, resting her head against his shoulder. "I wish you would have told us sooner, Harry. Told me sooner."

"I know," he sighed, "I know, Hermione, but you're his fiancé you'd be obligated to tell him and Ron's…just a bit irrational when forced to confront these sorts of things. Besides Draco thinks I haven't told anyone at all. As far as he knows you and Ron are the only two to know about our relationship. He doesn't know about the others. He likes the secrecy. He says it simplifies things…or something like that. And I've been a right coward about telling him any different."

She nodded like she understood perfectly. They sunk into a companionable silence.

Harry opened his eyes and watched Draco's chest rise and fall steadily, waiting for the effects of his curse to wear off.

"What am I going to do now, Hermione," he asked eventually, "I so wanted this to work out properly."

She patted his arm, still leaning against him. "Don't worry about it, Harry," she said firmly, in her element again, "you work on that idiot, and I'll work on this one. Eventually we'll get them to be one big happy dysfunctional family whether they like it or not."

Harry laughed and slung an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into a hug. "Thank you, 'Mione."

Hermione sat up, face set seriously. "I want to apologise for following up on that tracking spell this morning. It's just we waited all night for you to return and when you never came we…I got worried. Ron insisted you probably just got laid, finally. I believe that's how he put it."

Harry blushed.

"But I thought perhaps something happened," Hermione trailed off and looked at him apologetically. It was four years since his growth spurt but she was still getting used to having to look up at him.

"I understand. I should have said something, we're in a war and some assumptions we can't afford to make."

Before Hermione could reply both Draco and Ron groaned into wakefulness. Hermione stood and pulled Harry up along with her, then went to kneel next to her fiancé helping him to sit.

Draco had already managed to achieve that position so Harry stood where he was, awkwardly.

The first words out of Draco's mouth were: "Harry, you hexed me…" Draco rubbed his head looking too awed to be properly cross. Ron was sending a similar look to Hermione.

Harry spread his arms wide in the form of an excuse, and wondered if the proper procedure was to offer Draco comfort and risk being shoved away brutally and possibly encouraging another face-off between Draco and Ron…or to just leave things as they were until he could ease Draco bruised ego.

Draco sat there, grey-eyes still holding that slightly stunned look. He stood slowly, still looking at Harry almost beseechingly. He found something eventually, whether it was what he wanted or not Harry assumed he'd find out later. Probably in the worse possible way. "This was a waste of time," Draco said. "You know where I'll be." His voice was cold and hard. That couldn't be a good sign. Harry sighed and nodded, watching him walk out the door before turning to Ron at his elbow.

"I'm sorry for keeping that from you for so long," Harry said, half-sigh. He then gathered Ron into a rough hug, which was significantly more difficult than hugging Hermione had been, and comforting in a completely different way than hugging Draco was.

Ron returned the hug without the least bit of awkwardness, with a family of six siblings he was used to this sort of thing. "I'm still pissed with you, Harry." Ron figured that would have carried more weight if his voice hadn't cracked right at the end.

"I know. It's my fault. I'm sorry, Ron, Hermione." His embrace tightened and then he pulled away, averting his gaze and scrubbing at his eyes trying not to be too obvious about it.

Ron also pulled away, his back to Harry and Hermione and wiped an arm roughly across his eyes and forehead attempting to explain the sudden moisture away as sweat, not tears.

"I love you, you bloody bastard. Even if you're mad as a loon. Don't cut us out of your life."

"I won't Ron, I won't. I swear it."

By the time Harry Apparated back to Draco's flat he was very very tired, in every way possible. It had been a long day, attached to a longer week, attached to a longer life.

Harry stumbled to the bedroom, pulled along by the sound of chaos breaking.

What he saw there confirmed his previous suspicions. Draco was in hissy-fit mode. His clothes were all over the floor. Lovely. He was just dying for an argument right now. "What are you doing? What are all my clothes doing on the-"

Draco didn't spare a moment to look in his direction. "What do you think I'm doing," Draco returned flatly. He grabbed up an armful of the clothing and stuffed it into a bag lying on what Harry had come to assume as 'their' bed. Another armful was shoved in and it hit Harry hard. Yes he knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't know why he was doing it, didn't know what he was going to do if he was right, but he knew exactly what Draco was doing. Harry screwed a far more determined look onto his face than he felt. Look the part, be the part. Right now all he felt was nauseous.

"Are you kicking me out?"

"You hexed me," Draco accused.

"You and Ron were about to kill each other. It wasn't as if I could reason you out of it."

"You chose. You said who you wanted, let's not draw this out any further."

"Draco!" Harry grabbed his clothes out of the bags and dumped them back onto the bed. Draco gritted his teeth and twirled around to face him.

"Look Potter, we both knew it was bound to end some time. Why make this into a production?"

Potter. Harry stiffened. He hadn't called him 'Potter' in _that_ voice in a long time and as far as he was concerned it was cheating. And it hurt. And he was not going to get out of this that easily. He was not going to rise to the bait in that tone.

"Draco, what is this about? What is it really about?"

Draco deflated, back not quite as straight, eyes not quite as hard, voice nowhere near as rough. "I hate goodbyes, Harry. I hate them more than anything. Don't make me say it."

"Then don't say it! Why are you doing this?"

"Because you chose! They're your life remember? I'm just the trappings."

"No you're not Draco, you are my life too. You're my family, all of you. The only family I've got."

"Exactly the only family you've got. For once quit being an idiot, Potter. It really doesn't suit you."

Now he was confused. Tired, confused, and hurt. It made for one very annoyed Harry Potter. "What are you talking about?!"

"You really think that they're ever going to allow us to just be? I _told_ you we shouldn't tell anyone. I _told_ you!"

Draco was throwing random things into the bags now indiscriminately. Harry was sure he saw a few of Draco's own shirts being tossed into the pile. "They'll make you choose, and I know who you will. I'm not going to wait around for that."

Oh. So that's what this was about.

"I am not choosing anyone over anyone. Ron's hardly going to abandon me because I'm dating you," Harry said softly. "Everything does not revolve solely around you, _Malfoy_." Cheap shot, but he deserved it. "Don't you still want me?" Even cheaper shot, but _Harry_ deserved the answer to that.

Draco shifted his eyes away refusing to answer before turning his back to Harry. Harry smiled faintly. In Draco-speak, he had learned, that meant yes. "Whatever happened to 'a Malfoy always gets what he wants'?"

There was a pause. "What this Malfoy wants is…for you to be happy."

"I am. Extremely happy," Harry wrapped his arms around Draco's waist securely, "with you."

Draco remained in his embrace stoically, neither leaning into it nor pulling away.

"Will you be there with me at the trial," he asked quietly.

Harry was stunned into silence. How did they move from almost to breaking up to _this_?

Announcing to the world they were in a relationship was dangerous for both of them. As an unfortunate experience last year, that he was still trying his best to forget, had taught him all too well: some of his 'fans' on the side of 'light' could get territorial where he was concerned. Insanely territorial. Telling the world he was involved in a committed relationship with Draco Malfoy -– which is what he would be doing by showing up at his side- son of a death-eater, would be the equivalent of shouting out a kidnapping and 'de-programming' request. As for Draco, having any connection at all with the Boy-Who-Lived was always dangerous. But they both knew this and had been prepared to deal with the consequences for a year now so that wasn't the problem. The problem was…that one act would move their relationship from private to very very public very rapidly.

"You want me there?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't, Potter."

Harry sighed dramatically and squeezed. "Once a pratt always a pratt," he teased, "fine Malfoy, I'll be there." Then in softer more sincere voice, " I'll be honored to be at your side today."

Draco nodded and raised a handful of Harry's clean shirts to his face. It still smelled like him, no matter how many times they were washed. His eyes fluttered closed briefly. "Who wouldn't be proud. It is me, after all."

Harry smiled and pressed his face into Draco's neck. "I love you, Draco."

"I know." Draco dropped the shirts, and straightened shaking Harry's embrace gently away. "I'm going to shower."

Harry waited until he heard the water pattering against the bathroom walls before uttering a groan of frustration. He knew Draco loved him, that wasn't the problem, it just would have been nice to hear it back…just once. Just once his "I love you" followed by an " I love you too". Even Ron could say it and he was about as 'in touch with his sensitive side' as a full- grown Grindylowe.

Harry flopped down on the bed, on top of all his clothes and shoved a pillow over his head, curling into the mussed blankets. Another minor chaos averted. Meltdown halted. Ten o'clock in the morning. He needed to go back to bed, and never get up again. Fifteen minutes later Draco was shaking him awake to get dressed for court.

He definitely must have been a telemarketer.


	5. Chapter 5

Life was pain. It was simple fact most chose to ignore. Life was pain. Pure, unadulterated, excruciating pain. Each heartbeat pounded with it, each breath gasped with it, reveled in it, danced and sang and flowed with it for life was Pleasure and Pleasure was Pain. Capital P, no abbreviations. The two weren't mutually exclusive, nor were they close cousins, nor opposite realms on the spectrum of feeling. They were one and the same. Pleasure, Pain, Life. Draco had explained it to him once, how everything was all wrapped up together, the one would be nothing without the other and that is what made it one and the same. One and the same. Harry often thought of their relationship along those terms. Their lives had always been intertwined in one way or the other since that day he was reintroduced into the world as a wizard. Pleasure, Pain, Life, Love. This experience was just another example of that.

Harry and Draco entered the courtroom together and before the double doors had a chance to swing shut, there was complete silence. Every head in the room, every pair of eyes, fastened on the two young wizards. Harry held Draco's hand loosely, his thumb tracing light figure eights across Draco's baby-soft palm, so nervous his stomach was twisting loops more elaborate than any he had done on a broom. In a moment shock would give way to intrigue…encouraging chaos, even the courtroom of one of the best guarded cases in wizard history couldn't prevent that. He should probably take his leave before that could happen. As another key witness in this trial, he wasn't allowed in the courtroom until after giving his testimony anyway.

Harry didn't like admitting it, and probably wouldn't should Draco ask, but he reluctantly agreed that sometimes secrecy was preferable if only because it avoided situations such as this. Draco squeezed his hand briefly, and then let go, signally for Harry to leave now. Harry exited. The room slowly became reanimated. Draco was called to the stand.

The questions came immediately, harsh and suggesting, and Draco realized too late that Harry's show of support would only serve to insinuate their inability to be honest witnesses. This, his father would have said, is exactly what happens when you think with wants instead of musts. When you follow the whims of your heart, instead of the truth of your head.

The defense attorney was a small little man by the name of Timothy McGee, he was quite the lawyer of his day, Draco expected no less from his father. The man rather resembled a rodent though, with his slicked back hair and his mouth that seemed always on the edge of spitting, front teeth prominently protruding. But he had the mannerisms of a walrus, he waddled everywhere he went, and bellowed rather than chittered. He was effective, but he wasn't pretty. It sickened Draco to think that once he might have aspired to be like this man, thinking with his head, effective but distasteful.

"You are the only living heir, besides your father, of the Malfoy dynasty, are you not Mr. Malfoy." The question wasn't a surprising one, Draco couldn't help bristling a little even though.

"I am."

"In your opinion, just how large is that dynasty."

"I couldn't begin to guess."

The defense attorney waddled back to the desk, shuffled through papers and then returned to glare through small beady eyes at Draco.

"Just what is your relationship with Mr. Potter?"

Ahh another one that wasn't so surprising given recent events, but it did mean McGee was going to be playing it by ear. The thought had a bad feel about it.

"We've been involved for the past three years."

"Would you call this a serious relationship?"

He managed to make the word sound dirty, and there was a faint chuckle at the very end that you'd only hear if you were listening for it.

"No," Draco said coldly, "I've just been bored quite awhile now. I've been fucking him to pass the time."

Draco was not favored with a fluster, despite how much it would have pleased him to see one, instead the rodent simply turned lazily to the presiding judge with a smirk. "Your honor would you please have the witness answer the question."

"Answer the question Mr. Malfoy, no sarcasm, and kindly limit the profanity."

Draco braced himself against the back of his chair, thinking rapidly. If he said yes the relationship was serious, his reasons for testifying against his father would be suspect, if he said no the media would have a picnic tomorrow and his life would resemble that of a three-ring-circus in hell, Harry would be undoubtedly hurt as well, and there was no guarantee that they would believe him any more regardless.

"I'm afraid I've forgotten the question. Could you repeat it."

"Certainly, Mr. Malfoy. In your estimation, are you involved in a serious relationship with one Harold James Potter. Would you offer him a measure of safety should he need it?"

"What are you getting at Mr. McGee?"

"Do you love him?"

The sudden stir of whispers saved Draco from answering straight away.

"I fail to see what that has to do with anything."

"Your honor, would you please ask the witness to answer the question."

"I'm wondering the same thing counselor. How is this relevant?"

"I'm getting to that. If Mr. Malfoy would just cooperate."

The judge leaned back and waved for Draco to answer. The attentive silence was restored.

"Do you love Mr. Harold James Potter?" The word 'love' was dirtier than serious had been. Something to be mocked. The way Harry's name was stretched out amplified his intent.

"Yes," Draco answered after a moment's deliberation, " I do."

The right side of McGee's face twisted into a malicious smile, shaded so by the afternoon light that only he could see it, Draco fought the urge to grin back and show the little toad how it was really done.

"Enough to frame your father?"

"Excuse me?"

The room roared to life, the judge banged the gavel so ferociously that it sounded as if he had three of the things at his leisure, the prosecuting attorney jumped up (about time, Draco thought with a bitter grimace) and began shouting out the inappropriateness of the question, ending with: "If your honor would please inform Mr. McGee that closing arguments are used for closing," and Draco's excuse me was swallowed. All the better for it, it was a pitiful return and should the man have picked up on that Draco would have been forced to throw reserve overboard and smash his devious smirking little rat face into the side of the table.

From there it got worse. Draco tuned out as much as he could, tried not to seem on the defense, tried not to snap, or curse, or have any other unpleasant reaction while feeling torn in two. Tried not to look his father's way, but felt his eyes slide back time and again to his stiff unmoving figure. Funny how hell was never how you pictured it, but just as terrible. If there was a mirror, as he was sure there must be, there always seemed to be something nasty like that about somewhere, that showed you your one true heart's fear, Draco would bet it was always shifting, like the Mirror Of Erised always shifted. Fears and desires were the same that way, time had a way of changing everything. Four years ago he would have said hell would be a world with no boundaries, nothing to keep you from falling, or rising, just the clouds and sea and no lines in between. A year ago during that horrible episode with the stalker, he would have said hell was a world without Harry. Now, now hell was this, and all that before, and no end in sight. The only fear of life…is one without death.

When Draco was eight years old his mother was just getting into her health guru phase. All the witches of importance were doing it. Mud-baths, youth elixirs, vegetable shakes, vitamin tablets, herbs of all sorts, potions that claimed to remove all toxins from your body, she tried any and everything that she could get her hands on. Draco was her unwilling tag- along, and sometime guinea-pig. The boy hated it, but would not protest in fear his mother would be reduced to tears. Narcissa projected the image of a fragile creature, and all members of the Malfoy residence trod lightly around her accordingly, as if she were made of a finely spun sugar instead of the manipulative flesh and bone that Lucius knew she was. But still Draco hated everything about his status as health companion. Hated it intensely.

Lucius would always remember that first occasion when a terrified house-elf brought him one of Draco's dirty shirts wrapped around a pile of herbal pills. That was to be the first time Lucius was aware of Draco's rebellion against his unfair lot in the Malfoy clan. After that house-elves came to him on a weekly basis with things Draco had hidden away. His favorite hiding place was the one place that was always discovered: his dirty laundry.

It was a stupid place to put it, but then children were unequivocally shortsighted, and consequently stupid. They only saw as far as their fears, or desires, never heading down that path of stray thought long enough to follow it to its conclusion. A committed wrong, Hide the evidence they shouted. Get it out of sight, that's close enough to rectifying the situation. A show of gratitude? Shower that person in love, give them your heart, that's no more than what is obliged of you. Lucius never scolded Draco for his stupidity, nor punished him for disobeying his mother, truthfully he had been impressed – despite the failure of his son's plan, it was still a plan. This child was not one who would follow anything just because it was expected of him. Smart boy, it was thirty years before Lucius had learned that himself, and he had never learned it all the way. But perhaps he should have punished him, perhaps he should have given his son a stern talking to, perhaps he should have made clear that while the idea had merit the method was disgraceful. Because look at him now. Look at him, admitting he cares, barely able to keep from shivering, allowing his temper to get the best of him, hiding everything once again in half-covered dirty laundry and forgetting that it would one day soon have to be washed.

Look at him. Oh God Look at him.

Draco looked different: taller, older, thinner, stronger, younger, so many different things all contrasting the other, but mostly he looked like his son. He looked like that eight-year old boy hiding vitamins in dirty shirts.

Draco stumbled out of the courtroom's double doors, his shell fallen completely away, and into the arms of his lover. Lover in every aspect now, he supposed.

"So you love me," Harry whispered into his neck.

Draco looked up at him curiously but didn't question. News traveled fast after all, even if all outside of the courtroom were supposed to be ignorant of how the trial was proceeding.

"Just a minor weakness of mine, I wasn't planning on letting half the wizarding world hear about it first hand. Bugger that now."

Harry smiled, "I love you too."

Draco smiled back, just a careful turning up of his lips. "You realize that now anything I say is just biased opinion in their eyes. The same goes for you." Harry nodded and released him at Draco's silent request.

"I've betrayed my father for nothing," he continued with a melancholy tone.

"No. You did your best to save countless lives, put all those wrongs to rest…and whether or not he knows it that includes your father. If they choose not to listen you've still done what you came here to do. Everything will be alright."

Draco look at him serenely with that same half-smile pasted on his lips before that too crumbled. "I wish I may, I wish I might," he whispered brokenly, and then there were tears and his shoulders were shaking gently with the effort of keeping them silent.

Since they had been together Harry only saw Draco cry once. Through wild accusations, heated passion, screams, pleas, anger, hurt, broken hearts, love…there were no tears but just that once. Harry pretended he wasn't there, and Draco never mentioned he knew he had been seen. It was one of those situations where the lesser evil was ignorance. He turned away with a blind eye, and deaf ear, and pretended he had never been there at all. There was a time for comfort, and then there was a time when your presence was simply a barricade against emotion. Then in the early days of their relationship it was easy to decide which was which, which road was the right one to take, for they had not been together long enough to warrant anything other than a blind eye, a deaf ear. But now, lately he was finding it harder and harder to know exactly what to do. How much could be tolerated before things were too honest, too open, too redefining? How much could he push, without having Draco push back. He knew he was loved, he knew Draco knew that he was in love, but knowing and accepting were different things. He had just admitted it to an entire courtroom under duress, was that really the same as being ready to admit it freely? Needing comfort and allowing it were two different things. But it was alright, he'd wait for him. However long it took.

Harry reached a tentative hand up to slide a finger down the path of tears marking Draco's cheek, then cupped his head in his palm. Draco closed his eyes and leaned into the touch briefly before turning away and wrapping his arms around himself.

"It's just I saw him in there," his voice was low and soft, "just sitting there…and I know to everyone else he looks like a hardened criminal but to me he…he looks like my father. Just my father."

Harry pulled him into his embrace without a thought to whether or not it was the right thing to do, and he wasn't shoved away.

The hug turned into a kiss, Harry pressing first his cheeks to Draco's own, and then his lips, until there was a steady rhythm of warm kisses pressed gently across Draco's face, leaving behind it's own trail of light wetness. By the time they landed on Draco's lips and stayed, both Harry and Draco were breathless, and their arms had decided to move from embracing to caressing.

"We can't do this here."

Despite his words Draco leaned in and opened his mouth receptively to Harry. Harry ran a hand down Draco's side, fingers lightly stroking the smooth material of his jacket, he used his other arm to hook around Draco's neck and pull him closer still.

Draco's hands grappled with Harry's buckle even as his mouth protested, "we really can't do this …Mmm...here."

"You're right," Harry grinned into Draco's mouth, sliding his own hands underneath Draco's shirt and around to caress his back.

"I'm always right."

They were interrupted by a nasal authoritative command to "stop acting like hormone driven teenagers. You are really far too old to be groping each other in public." Harry looked up with a blush, Draco leaning against him in resignation and a small smile on his flushed lips. Percy Weasley, assistant ministry researcher to the prosecution stood before them looking just as annoyed with them as he had when separating dating couples back in their school-days. With a last disapproving shake of his head, he left, calling back over his shoulder, "Harry, they're ready for you now."


	6. Chapter 6

"Are you questioning my orders, Lucius." The voice was a transparent shadow of its former vibrant self. The slithering ominous tone and depth gone, replaced with a thin wheedling sound, strained, watery, tethered too tightly to sticks that pulled in opposite directions.

"No, my lord" the answer came immediate to his tongue, so easy now, "merely affirming my role in this. I will not have the chance to revise should I...overcompensate. "

"Of course." Voldemort sunk back in his chair, a large wooden monstrosity of formidable mass and no more appeal than its owner but it claimed no independent thought and for that he was grateful. Lucius didn't think he could handle one more sentient idiot sharing his breathing space. He, Voldemort, King of all kings, Lord of all Lords, the greatest wizard to lift a wand, was swathed in blankets, over his head like a hood, across his chest, covering his legs, until there was little of him you could see, only the outline of a figure buried somewhere deep in material.

"You always were my most loyal, weren't you, Lucius? My most trusted companion."

Subsidiary more like. Minion.

"And yet...you would thrive without me, wouldn't you, Lucius? Have done."

"That was hardly thriving my lord, it was existing, biding my time until your return."

They both knew the lie for what it was. Felt it in the silence that swallowed them, even if they could not hear a stutter, or see a twitch.

"Yes. And so you would even now, exist... without me." There was a sort of melancholy note in the tone that had not been present even in the early years, a resignation raging without the threat of indescribable pain. Lucius bowed his head and responded as norm regardless.

"I shall not fail you, my lord, there will not be a need for a life without you."

But could he really? Would they truly be so obtuse as to trust him around the boy? Would they really allow him to get that close? Was this all for naught? Was this final - for the finality could be mistaken for nothing else - command really nothing more save the last attempt of a desperate man? No man was not the right word for what sat in front of him, wheezing and savoring what should have been his last breath four years ago. Was this nothing but the desperate attempt of a dying...no even that was wrong. This creature before him was neither dead nor alive, he simply was. He existed on a plane that was foreign to Lucius, and in a way that terrified him, yet filled him with a sadness too. Here was a creature without the fear of death but desperately clinging onto the last stages of an un-life, tired and strained, and utterly obsessed with one thing, no longer focused on the cause they had all fought for, they had all believed in, worked so hard for, no more philosophies or goals except one: Kill Harry Potter. A whole life of work reduced into such a fragile senseless thing as that, revolving around such an insignificant thing as one human boy. Kill Harry Potter. Here before him was a spent creature. An insane creature. And what was worse, a desperate creature.

Lucius found himself tired of it all. It wasn't a sudden thing but a gradual building, a slow burning tear, there was just too many...too many...following one path that refused to make sense any more. Too many.

There was chatter behind him, inane twittering clicking incessantly behind him, endless whispers that shrieked, bubbles of laughter shattering like glass in his mind. He couldn't think, only hear and burn and feel himself twisted away with each utter. Still he was silent, still for their mobility, stoic for their eruptions, calm for their churning.

The boy with raven hair, and a lightning bolt for his mark trod the barbed path, knives and knaves at his throat. And the friends that held him could protect him no more.

It's now or never, now or never. Now or never. You will serve your lord this one last time, whether or not you agree. Little shit like morals don't matter, Lucius. Regrets don't matter. What ifs and could have beens don't matter. Now or never. Nothing matters, Lucius. Nothing matters but this one truth: you relinquished the right to choose long before he was born. There is nothing but your lord. Nothing. Now or never. Now or never.

Daddy, why's the sky blue?

Daddy, what happens when you mix poppy seeds and nectar of dandelions?

Daddy, if I decided I didn't want to be part of a war...would that be okay?

Daddy, look at me! Look at me! I'm flying, it worked! I'm actually flying!

Daddy, why's mommy looking like that? Is it because of me?

Daddy...Dad...Father...if you love someone is that a weakness?

Father, I can't marry her, I just can't...Thank you for understanding. You always do.

Father, I know you've always done your best by me.

Father, I forgive you, I know you only want the best for me.

Father, if your heart belonged to someone and theirs belonged to you...but you couldn't give your life for them...what...what would that make you?

"Nothing, son. It makes you nothing."

I'm sorry, old habits die hard, I'm sorry. You can't relearn your life in one moment. I'm sorry. Forgive me once again, Draco. Just one more time again. Just this One. Last. time.

Harry froze mid-step, turned and his eyes connected with that of Lucius Malfoy's suddenly vibrant grey gaze. He knew before he saw them, a sixth sense that was no use to him, a pain in his head weakening his knees. He knew. Those eyes, revealed no shocking epiphany, for he already knew. Already knew. They blazed empty, burned empty, such a contradiction of terms he understood well now...since the war...because of the war...always because of the war. They were feverish with an all-consuming shallow need. To. Kill. Those eyes so like Draco's, so exactly like Draco's even when all else was not. So exactly that he could pretend they were Draco's...it would be good as a last image. There wasn't a thing else he would rather have. He sunk to his knees, and felt no more, grey burning eyes dancing just beyond his reach.

It was the last thing he would ever see. He had no regrets.


	7. Chapter 7

Light. And Darkness. Light and Darkness glowed together. He was moving through sand, legs plowing and pressing forward but not seeming to get anywhere. He was surrounded by sand ...no...a sludge and formless thick black sludge...it was the light, it was the darkness, and it surrounded him and he could see no way out. He couldn't see anything, he was pressed in on all sides, the sludge filling his nostrils, holding down his arms, but he could breathe. Light and Darkness. Light and Darkness glowed together. He didn't like it...but neither did he want to return to what he knew would face him.

_Harry! Harry...you'll be alright, you'll be alright. You'll be alright._

Dudley Dursley and Harry Potter were peers in only the most superficial of senses: age and gender, and then even that was shrouded in a collection of so many differences that it was easily overlooked. They were raised in the same house, by the same people, attended the same schools, played at the same park, slept under the same roof, had the same blood flowing through their veins; and yet they grew up so differently they might have been strangers from opposite sides of the planet, who spoke in different tongues, and absorbed information through different body-parts. Dudley was raised on pedestal. Harry was swept away in hopes that "out of sight, out of mind" would lead to simply out. Dudley Dursley was in fact, in Harry's strong opinion, reared into a species all his own, spoiled so badly and so often that the word spoiled no longer was capable of enveloping the full capacity of 'Dudley behavior.'

There were times, though, when they managed to bridge a sort of fragile truce across the gulf of unequal social status, a moment of brief camaraderie and cooperation that appealed to both their needs for human companionship. Oddly enough these moments did not serve to make the inevitable plunge back into the real world more bitter, it instead tempered down the bullying, eased away the pain of rejection, granted him temporary relief from the hardships of forced isolation. There were times when Harry couldn't help but love his cousin; despise his behavior, hate his whiny pouty voice, become repulsed by his attempt at charm, yes, but love him just the same. That was the thing about family, sometimes no matter how much you hated them you could love them too. It was because of this love that very often on rainy days when Piers was unavailable and Dudley was bored with his usual game of "torment Potter", Harry would indulge his cousin in mindless chatter, and pretend to be interested in his unique idea of story-time despite the fact neither one of them could read yet. Well...love and boredom.

"I don't want to hear that one. It's scary." Harry Potter, four years old, clothes hanging just a bit loosely off his shoulders-it wouldn't be until years later that he realized half a size too big was a vast improvement over his usual wear - a thumb skirting its way past his cheek, hesitantly moving towards his mouth.

Dudley Damon Dursley, his big cousin, by half a size and half a year, sat superiorly on his toddler-sized bed, peering down at his 'baby' cousin indulgently. Four year olds were really insufferable, at five he could proudly say that now, and Harry Potter was just about the worst four year old he knew...Well the only one but he'd bet he was the worst. "Don't be such a pansy, Harry," Dudley said and tapped the bed beside him, signaling for Harry to sit down next to him.

Harry scrambled up the bed sure-footedly as he had done a thousand times before, hand over hand, one shoed foot pressing firmly in to the mattress, the other pushing off from the ground. Sometimes at night when neither one of them could sleep, or when it was raining hard and accompanied by that dreadful scary crash of the sky breaking, Dudley would ask Harry to stay with him, and Harry would agree readily. Comforted by the soft warmth of another body he was able to chase away the ghosts and goblins long enough for sleep to find him, even if that other body was that of his daytime tormentor.

"What's a pansy?" Harry asked as soon as he was situated on the bed.

"Someone that moves around a lot and wets the bed and stuff."

"Are you sure?" Harry asked skeptically, thumb inching its way to his mouth again.

Dudley shoved Harry over and tossed a pillow after him. "Course I am, stupid. Now do you want to hear the story or not?"

Harry nodded his assent and then settled next to his cousin, toddler legs knocking against each other, toddler fingers turning pages.

Twelve pages later they were both intently studying a picture of a scary looking wolf colored in stark black lines and dark grays and bright red, three terrified little pigs were crouching beneath a bush.

"So then the wolf said I'm gonna eat you up. And he did. Bacon for days."

"That," Harry said firmly, "is not how the story goes. The pigs get away."

"They do not, dumbass."

"They do too! And don't call me that, Dudley. You're not s'posed to say that word."

Dudley stood up and began bouncing on his bed. "Dumbass Dumbass Dumbass," he chanted happily.

"You must be looking in the mirror." Harry grinned while his cousin tried to figure out what that meant, scrambled back off the bed and added teasingly, "Dudders, " before taking off at a dash. Another day passed, another moment gone, and love did reign in spite of.

_Harry come back...please..._

He was busy at work, oblivious of Harry's approach, dressed casually in a pair of tan tweed pants, brand new sneakers - another pair of ridiculously overpriced things Draco insisted on buying though he had acquired more than his fair lot in the past few years - and a plain light blue sweatshirt. It was an interesting look for him...in a scary sort of way. This the same one who used to dress in silk for bed, who refused to wear anything that "could be afforded by the Weasleys," walking around in sneakers and sweatshirts. Wizard's clothing was outlawed now. Too many muggles killed rashly, indiscriminately, identified at a glance by their jackets and jeans and skirts and blouses. If everyone dressed the same, it was reasoned, Death-eaters would no longer be able to tell a wizard from a muggle at first glance, they would not know who they could mess with and who they could not. It was a good theory as far as theories go, and met with little resistance once Harry endorsed it fully. Still it was strange to give up his robes, to see Draco dressed like a muggle. To see Snape in muggle clothing...

"What are you doing?"

"Throwing this away," Draco said without turning around. Half of their conversations were had with Harry directing his comments to the back of Draco's head. It wasn't a bad view really.

"You can't its-"

Draco turned now and looked at him sternly.

"Okay fine," Harry sighed, " but can't I at least keep the track lighting?"

"Yes sure, you do that, and while you hang them I'll go hire the clown."

"Condescending Prat."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. I'm tossing them out."

"Good boy. And they said you had a hard head," Draco said cheerfully while decisively tearing down another sheet. Harry's pout hung thickly in the silence. Finally after another rip and still without turning around Draco sighed.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Potter, quit looking like someone just kicked your puppy. What's wrong now?"

"I just thought this was supposed to be my party."

"It is, which is why I refuse to let you make an ass of yourself. You should be thanking me. Hanging streamers at a party for anyone over the age of eight is a colossal social faux pas."

Harry ignored the implied insult, bit back one of his own for later use, and turned on the puppydogeyes. "I wish you were staying," he said wistfully.

Draco rolled his eyes, not in the least fooled. "I always knew you were a Sadist, Potter. Imagine me, the pride and joy of Slytherin house, attending a party thrown _by_ and comprised _of_ nothing but Gryffindicks. No offense."

"Half the reason my friends don't get along with you is because of that attitude. You really are a horrible snob."

"No," Draco responded, wrapping his arms around Harry, and burying his head in Harry's collar, "I'm selective."

"You can't win all our arguments like this, you know, Draco. It's cheating."

"Mmmm. Creative winning."

Harry sighed and held him back, "it just figures, the king of euphemisms is my lover." Another day passed, another moment gone, and love did reign in spite of.

_...come back..._

Hermione's wide brown eyes wavered against the strain of self-restraint, her lips quivering, her hands clenching spasmodically. Harry grinned to himself even though he knew once the night was through he and Ron were going to die horrible messy deaths at the hands of this woman.

"England, huh? So what's that make you?"

"English."

"Cool! What's your language?"

"Excuse me," Hermione asked politely.

"I mean back there in England what do you speak?"

A pause...so so many ways to answer that, he could visualize her brain stuttering on possible replies. Harry couldn't help the wide smile stretching his face.

"Pig Latin," she said finally without a trace of a smile.

Her eyes lifted skywards briefly, then turned to search him out, found him and began pleading with him over the heads of too many people. Harry stifled a laugh, it wouldn't be appreciated now. 'Come get me out of this Harry, before I kill him and then I come after you and Ron for doing this to me in the first place', they said. He shrugged back as if to say 'oh well, this is the last blind date we're ever going to get you on, we might as well have fun with it as long as we can'.

Across the room Ron was holding his breath to keep from laughing.

Another day passed, another moment gone, and love did reign in spite of.

_Can you hear me? Can you hear me? You can fight this, Harry! I know you can! Please..._

Sirius Black, dark eyes, dark hair arranged wildly around his head, looking worried as sure as not. It was hard to reconcile this parental godfather with the carefree person Remus recounted. Remus Lupin with his easy smile, his slow to inspire anger that flared hotter than Sirius' own. Whether he wanted of not another day would pass with each moment that left and his only condolence would be love would reign in spite of. In spite of war, in spite of life, in spite of time, in spite of forces that tore apart, in spite of bad decisions, in spite of cruelty, in spite of obligations, in spite of resentment.

_If you die on me Harry I'll kill you. I swear I'll...I'll..God come back._

Faces and voices and memories. Memories and faces and voices. Voices and memories and faces. He could hear them through the sludge pushing closer and closer and he panicked.

"Harry you know there's no"

"fucking way! No fucking way! And in case you didn't hear me the first time let me"

"take you back, Harry. You shouldn't be out here by yourself not when"

"Snape gets back he's going to be pissed, but I think it might be because he actually cares about you in some sort of sick twisted away of his. I really don't think he wants to"

"kill you. You do realize that right? He's not going to torture you, or try to turn you, not any more he's lost too much. Not this time. I'm only telling you because"

"I care for you very much Harry. We all do and we only want"

"what's best for you. And I know you don't always think I know what that is but Harry I'm trying and"

"I love you very much. Just remember that okay? I"

"Love you"

"I love you! You selfish Bastard! Is that what you need to hear? I love you."

Light. And Darkness. Light and Darkness glowed together. The sludge pulled away as he sank, legs kicking frantically and fighting down through the muggy depths. He surfaced with a ragged gasp, still pointed the wrong way. His glasses were gone but he could see perfectly. This didn't strike him as abnormal, he was too busy gaping. "Mum? Dad?"


	8. Chapter 8

Footsteps down the hall, strong confident footsteps echoing throughout the mostly empty house, stopping in front of his door, a pause as she decided whether or not to barge straight in or to...a hesitant knock and a squeak of the door opening before he could respond to it...she'd decided then.

And in five...four...three...two...one...

"You look very good today, Harry."

Right on schedule. A wry smile twitched at his lips. It was always the same recently, in place of a hello he was greeted with: "you're looking good Harry" or "Harry, how handsome you look" or "you look very healthy." She soothed and comforted and complimented so much lately he had an awful feeling that he looked anything but handsome and good and healthy.

'The lady doth protest too much, methinks.' He was probably sprouting a second head somewhere, maybe his nose was slightly off kilter, his eyes rolled useless in his head widened and spaced at odd proportions to his mouth which was a purplish-green hue and stuck on his face like an extra chin. At night sometimes, after they left him alone finally, he would do a full body check, running his hands over everything he could reach and frantically trying to determine if it was all as he left it. 'Everything present and accounted for, Captain? Has he got all his fingers and toes in all the proper places?' Everything always was. He couldn't check for color of course, so maybe he was a purplish-green. He'd remind himself that Draco hadn't burst out with a tactful: "I asked for a Potter and instead they gave me an eggplant" yet so maybe he was his proper color. He'd then sigh and relax a little, content everything really was okay and his paranoia would be eased until the next time Hermione came out with a pleasantly placed: "You look very nice, Harry."

There was the sound of a chair scraping against the linoleum of the hospital floor, it drew closer towards him, and then a soft cool hand was placed over one of his own. His eyes opened habitually despite the fact they no longer could see a thing...and wouldn't be able ever again. Hermione inhaled a soft little gasp that was smothered more with sympathy than surprise -she already knew what lay behind his eyelids (cloudy, dull green unseeing orbs) had even seen for herself on more than one occasion and therefore couldn't be surprised - and he immediately regretted the reflex. He almost - almost - regretted not wearing his eye-patches, but they felt to restraining and the sunglasses felt ridiculous so he had chosen to forgo them unless he was out in public. It wouldn't be long now till the comments began. They would have anyway, but it would have been nice not to have started off this morning by fanning the flame that was Hermione Granger's misplaced sympathy. She seemed dead-set on convincing him he was secretly suffering from a mind-numbing and soul-crushing form of depression because of his newly acquired blindness...pardon his newly acquired 'disease'. His joking comments that: "It never was my strongest sense anyway," seemed to do more to support her theory than to waylay her fears.

There was the distinct smell of butterscotch that alerted Harry to Draco's presence before Hermione's ceaseless live *vocal* vigil came to halt. Nowadays it was the only way he could predict his proximity, Draco moved with the noiselessness of a large cat...or a snake, fitting that that was his house mascot during school, and the smell was his only warning of his lover's return. Not that he was ever very far away for long.

It was nearly three months since Harry awoke from a eight month long coma, one which for him seemed to last mere hours, bringing his collective time in the hospital to a resounding eleven months, almost a year since Voldemort's disappearance. They all hoped it would be a permanent disappearance this time, but you could never be too sure. And during that time Draco refused to be more than a few meters away from his hospital ridden lover, and Madame Pomfrey - now head matron to the largest wizarding hospital in all of England-refused just as strongly to allow him to stay unless he was 'productive and useful'. Euphemisms for busy and out of her hair. Draco was assigned to the honorable job of potion bottling, and consequently always smelled of butterscotch now. It was a well-used ingredient in a majority of potions, added to mask the taste and smell of otherwise horrendous ingredient combinations. Mint was another favorite, but butterscotch was much more adored. Harry was positively sick of both the scent and the taste. He couldn't wait to get home and have Draco's own clean soap smell returned to him.

Home also meant the return of other more intimate dealings between the two of them, something a bit longer and more satisfying than tempered chaste kisses and hand-holding. It also meant he'd be free to reinsert himself into the world as he now saw it...or didn't see it, rather. It meant a chance to be around his old things and be comfortable and be himself again. He could picture their flat now. Bright and cheery and welcoming...and a wreck. He seemed to recall they had left it a wreck. Harry's clothes all over their bed. An argument? Did they have an argument that day? He couldn't remember now. But it probably looked different, it was a year since he had last seen it - or nearly so anyway - it had to look different.

He couldn't go home though until he was able to walk completely by himself for more than five minutes at a go. Personally he expected they were simply stalling, the longer it took him to get out the longer they had to make sure Voldemort was truly a past figure. Which brought him back to Voldemort. The plague of his existence from the moment of his conception.

Which then brought him to Lucius Malfoy. A subject not worth the air it took to discuss, a complicated human being whittled down to his bare essence: love, indecision, and cowardice intermingled to make the weakest and strangest form of bravery, subconscious resistence. It was because of Lucius Malfoy that he was blind now, that he had missed out on eight months of his life, that his muscles were atrophied and physical therapy was necessary, that Draco became sullen and cold whenever the topic was broached, that ...he was still alive.

Lucius Malfoy.

They all should have known something was planned. The man was born to the game of deceit and avoidance, for him to have been captured so easily that day (practically Apparating on the doorstep of on duty Aurors) should have been the first give away. The second happened a second too late for anyone to respond, by then he was at Harry's side, hands pressed against either side of his head in a vice-grip, and Latin words tumbling from his lips.

Lucius Malfoy.

They should have known better than to allow Harry to testify while the man was in the same room, but they hadn't and he nearly died because of that one stupid stupid mistake. They were too eager to put away one of the most sought after Death eaters at large to think of anything 'insignificant' like setup. And Harry nearly died because of that. But he hadn't... he hadn't. Dumbledore discussed it once with him, and only once, soon after Harry awoke from the coma. In the end, he'd said, Lucius' will to kill Harry, effectively kill himself, and ultimately risk killing his son was not great enough for the spell to do more than plunge Harry into a coma. In the end, years of serving Voldemort had not prepared him adequately enough to perform this one last deed. Last deed for himself, they still were not sure about Voldemort. As Hagrid once said no one was really sure Voldemort had enough human _left_ in him to die, though he certainly had enough to fuse with Lucius' own life force and triple the power of the spell. One of the most unstable variations of the killing curse in which the caster was murdered along with the castee. He was here because in the end Lucius Malfoy was not a good person, but he was still a person.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder and Harry jumped: out of reverie and into reality.

"Sorry, mate," Ron said.

He was here too then? Three out of seven of the most important people in his life back again to harass him some more. Harry grinned. How could she be worried about him being depressed? They didn't give him enough alone time for anything remotely along those lines. He turned his face towards Ron and favored him with the smile. If he was honest with himself, which he nearly always was - except if it was regarding his dancing (in)abilities-he would admit he wouldn't want it any other way.

"No more sunrises. No more sunsets. No more Quidditch games..." Hermione was saying.

Somewhere during his reflection she had begun again.

"Granger are you here to comfort him or prompt him into a reckless act of hara-kiri?"

Draco's voice laced with butterscotch and faint traces of mint. As long as those smells came with him he supposed he could stand them.

"Sorry, Harry." She sounded it too, and he could picture the look on her face: abashed, repentant, mildly flustered that she had to be chastised, her lower lip would be drawn into her mouth, her head would be tilted down and to the side, her brows would be drawn up, and her hands would be folded primly in her lap. He'd always be able to see her with or without vision. He wished _she_ could see that.

"No more glasses at least, no more eye exams," Harry reminded, "no more irritating contact lenses that need regular cleaning." He raised a hand in the direction of Draco's voice, beckoning him closer. He was proud to see it was getting easier. After eight months of nothing more than involuntary twitches and exercises given by the hospital staff for maintenance his muscles were slowly reacquainting themselves with the act of moving. Later there'd be a walk around his hall (interspersed with the occasional social visit to the random patient) and then maybe a spin to the cafeteria (with him driving and Draco following a few paces behind) in his electrically and magically modified wheelchair, blindness be damned he could navigate himself.

"Well...you can still read at least, there's Braille," Hermione said.

"Blast," Harry responded in overdone solemnity, "just when I thought I had a perfectly legit excuse for never entering another library."

"And the ministry is willing to provide you with a seeing eye-dog," Hermione continued oblivious of his tone, "if you would just quit being so headstrong and accept their offer."

He sighed. Yes and while he was at it accept her much needed condolences, and accept her constant (badgering) help, and accept that he was disfigured for life and would always be in need of assistance because from now on reading Braille would be just about the only thing he could do by himself, and accept he was depressed and suicidal and so fragile he just might keel over if anyone breathed on him too strongly. That's what she was really asking, accept all this, because if he didn't accept all these falsities Hermione just wouldn't know what to do with herself or her worry.

"Why bother? He can always hire that godfather of his for the job," Draco said cheerfully, aware just how much Hermione's nagging made Harry feel...not helpless but thought of as helpless and that was nearly worse. The bed depressed with his weight and the butterscotch smell of him grew stronger. In that moment Harry never loved him more. "Or the werewolf," Draco continued, "can't you, Harry? I always knew there was a practical reason you were surrounded by canines."

"Malfoy," growled Ron in warning.

"Weasley," replied Draco, his tone just dripping of mock civility and far too much cheer.

"Ron," Hermione cautioned.

"Hermione," Ron complained, voice still sounding like his jaw was tense and he was clenching his teeth in order to hold back a scream.

"Yes, Ron, do listen to her," Draco advised sweetly.

"Draco."

"Granger."

"Malfoy."

"Weasley."

"Hermione!"

"Ron."

Harry suppressed a chuckle and threw his arms behind his head, reclining further into the soft comfort of the downy mattress, unconsciously leaning closer to Draco and feeling his warm body-heat press against him securely.

"And I'm Harry. Are we all acquainted now? Or is it time to share an intimate detail about ourselves?"

The mood held for two seconds flat before they all broke up in laughter.

Sometime after the laughter faded to chuckles and the chuckles to happy smiles he found himself spilling things he had not intended to ever spill. "Hermione I want you to know I'm really not upset over this blindness ph...thing." He had began by saying phase, but caught himself in time. It would have been precisely the wrong word to use in her presence and in that context.

"During my...time out I dreamt of things." Another smile passed over his lips, "mostly of the three of you and us together but I also...I also..."

Harry paused wondering if he should continue. He didn't talk about the things he dreamt, a lot of it was nonsense. Left-over nightmares he was sure. And then some of it felt like premonition, but he didn't know, and never said. And then there were the memories the beautiful memories of happier times, everything from selected memories from a childhood with Dudley to nights spent with Draco to hanging out in the Gryffindor Common room. But there was the other dream that was neither memory nor premonition nor nightmare, the one that he couldn't give a name to but felt so real, so entirely and fully real that he was afraid everyone in the room might begin to think along Hermione's line of thought: Harry was secretly suffering from impaired judgment and was in need of professional help. "I dreamt of my parents. They way I first saw them in the Mirror of Erised back in first year. And they talked to me. They told me...well they told me a lot but mostly it came down to I had a lot worth living for, despite the obstacles in my way...and I had to agree. Remembering all of you and what my life was like, the good parts of it and the bad together, I had to agree. So you see I really am okay with this. I'm accepted how I am now, because there's nothing else for me to do but accept it. I'm not thrilled that I'm blind, but I'm not depressed about it either. It's just another of those somethings that just are."

In his mind's eye he could see Ron leaning forward now to envelope Hermione in a full body hug, the back of her head resting against the base of his neck, she still held onto Harry's hand and he could see that too, the way her own long delicate fingers were covering his larger thicker hand protectively. Her hand-hold was looser now, more like the ones he remembered and less like she was physically holding him down. He knew them so well that he never really needed his eyesight to see them. It was nice to have, but he didn't need it to see them and really they were the only thing really worth seeing. He allowed his own head to rest against Draco's chest, and feel the steady heartbeat mimic his own.

"I'm not sure," Harry continued his voice softer, lulled into a comfortable tone by Draco's steady plod and inhale exhale motion, "if that dream could be called an out of body experience. I didn't see a light at the end of a tunnel, and I don't know if there is a life beyond, or if this is just a transition phase, or if it's really the end and when we're gone we're gone...but I do know that ...well they told me that life really is only about one thing sometimes. Despite everything else all the pain and all the suffering we can find happiness by doing this one thing. And that's why I'm okay with it, Hermione, because I have all of you and I'm doing my best to do that one thing."

"And what was that Harry," Ron asked, "enlighten us poor wayward urchins."

Harry smiled, basking in the darkness that was now his world and the love that had always seemed to find him despite circumstances or distance. "Just following the rhythm."

A faint musty smell still clung to the apartment, even though Draco had aired it out just the night before in preparation of Harry's release from the hospital. Finally. Nearly a year and a half he had waited for this moment, eight months of which was spent wondering if he'd be taking Harry to a crematorium as his last home.

Seventeen months of anguish, of returning home at night alone…that is, when he deigned to return at all. Most nights he simply waited beside Harry's bed, or stared unblinking at the hospital ceiling from his uncomfortable pull out chair that served as a guest bed. Seventeen months and now Harry was finally back. It felt good in a sad sort of way. Sorrow for the missing time they would never regain.

Draco inhaled his first breath of apartment air with Harry, since 'the incident', and felt faintly annoyed that the incense had done little to hide the musty smell of disuse. He supposed he couldn't really expect too much, it had been nearly a year and a half since anyone had really lived here after all, and spells did nothing to freshen only left behind a horrendous artificial scent of melted plastic for some reason. He should just be happy the smell wasn't suffocating, and other than the faintest trace of mothballs and must, everything was perfect. Draco had made sure everything was neatly placed away, nothing blocking aisles or pathways, no dirt or dust to speak of, no loose knickknacks or odds and ends that Harry might trip over, everything in its proper place and a proper place for everything. Everything was perfect, really. Everything had to be perfect, Draco would allow no less.

Draco examined each corner with a critical eye, doing a final broad sweep despite knowing there was little else he could do. He couldn't remember ever being this nervous. Ever. And he had to swallow thickly before his body could be convinced into forming words.

"Alright then," he whispered hoarsely, "Welcome home."

A hand encircled his wrist, shifted up further, and Draco turned into it brushing his cheek against Harry's. "Welcome home," he repeated.

"Home," Harry smiled in return, hearing it in Draco's voice. "Our home," he said, giving Draco's arm a little squeeze. "You don't know just how good that sounds."

"Oh, I think I have a fair idea."

Harry was silent, his whole mouth turned up into a smile as he surveyed the place. He couldn't see it, though the turn of his head suggested he was scanning it just the same, and Draco wondered what it was he was thinking. This had to be even stranger for Harry than it was for him. The last time, god, the last time they were here together it was after visiting the Weasley's – though they were Granger and Weasley at the time – and Draco had just finished throwing a fit and suggesting Harry never come back. If only he had known …There were so many things he would have done differently. So many things.

Harry titled his head in Draco's direction and slid his hand from Draco's forearm up to his bicep. "It's beautiful," he told Draco. "But there's one thing we're missing."

"Oh?"

"Yes. And I think I know how to fix it." Harry's face was alight with joy, a calm serene happiness Draco couldn't ever remembering seeing grace his features. Not during school, certainly not during the war, and not after. "Take me to bed," Harry suggested, his lips a breath away from Draco's, his hands smoothing over the hard concave of Draco's collarbone.

A shiver ran up Draco's body in anticipation. He had no problem complying.

There was so much he would have done differently, but only if it wouldn't change this, here, now.

A stream of hot breath caressed the side of his neck steadily, the presence of lips held tantalizingly close but not quite touching. Harry groaned and threw his head back. His hands wrapped in Draco's robes, tangled around the soft black fabric, he felt seventeen again and just discovering the joys of intimacy. No, the joys of intimacy with Draco, loving someone you were in love with. Robes were reinstated as the wizard dress code once Voldemort was destroyed. Harry was never happier for it than now, though he expected he wouldn't be quite so pleased with them in a few moments, the call of Draco's naked skin more enticing than nostalgia.

A wet open mouth descended across his throat hotly, sucking gently at his pulse point then moving in soft sweeping motion of the tongue, past Adam's apple, up to his jaw. God, this was lovely. Harry moaned appreciatively and hauled Draco in closer, the play of shifting back muscles against his tightly enclosed fists caused his stomach to flutter.

"You're so beautiful," Draco whispered between kisses. "So beautiful."

Harry humored him and didn't disagree, though he never saw himself that way, and really couldn't help but be a little bemused when Draco insisted he was with earnest eyes. He sobered a little when he realized he'd never again see that expression Draco got – that mix of determination and fondness with the smug self-righteous smirk that titled his lips just so – when trying to convince Harry he was beautiful. Despite what he assured Hermione…there _were_ times he missed his sight, missed it so deeply the yearning was a physical ache.

Draco moved back to his mouth, sucked Harry's breath along with his tongue into his own, and rubbed against him, one singular up down motion that stimulated another ache, a different sort that had nothing to do with regrets. Well…okay, maybe one: the fact they were still clothed. Why were they still clothed?

"Take this off," Harry's tone was urgent, the desperation in it almost embarrassing. Almost. If this hadn't been Draco, and if it hadn't been months since they'd last done anything. _Months_

Draco walked him backwards, easing him toward the edge of the bed and then lowering. "Sit down," he hissed into Harry's ear, flicking his tongue out to lap at his earlobe between syllables.

Harry shuddered hard, his whole body shaking with it. Everything was so much more intense in the darkness, his only cues displaced air and soundwaves, the gentle feel of arousal warmed skin brushing against his own.

He sat happily once he felt the backs of his knees hit against something thick and broad that could only be the bed, legs overjoyed to give out and sink to the soft mattress, drawing Draco down with him, hands never stilling, moving from shoulders to lower back, to chest, up to Draco's face where they stayed for a moment. _I miss seeing you_, he thought but kept silent. Now wasn't the time. Not now when they had exchanged little more than soft chaste kisses for the past eighteen months.

"Mmm," Draco moaned into his mouth as Harry lay backwards, arms interwoven through Draco's and hands clasping at Draco's shoulders, pulling down until Draco had no other choice but rest his weight on Harry, legs spread open, knees planted on either side of Harry's waist.

The robes they were wearing were bunched by now, Draco's rolled from friction into a hard line just under his ribcage, Harry's twisted tightly behind him and somehow trapped between them and beneath his left shoulder blade. The material was no longer soft and comforting but in the way, scratchy against Harry's flushed skin.

"Take this _off_," he demanded again. Harry yanked at the material impatiently. A slow intense burn had been building in the pit of his stomach since they'd entered the flat,…_their _flat, their _home_, and it churned there building and building and building until Harry thought he'd bubble over with it. Spontaneously combust with a whisper of fire red heat that was something like lust, something like comfort and a lot like love. Just this wonderful joy with nowhere to go.

"Trying," Draco gasped, scrabbling through the heavy weight of clothing. His voice echoed the desperation Harry felt, pressing out multi-syllabic babble between gasps with a distinctive high whine.

Harry felt his need washing off of him like he felt Draco's hard flesh sandwiched between them. There was so much he wanted to do; Harry didn't know where to start. Bucking upwards again and again seemed as good as place as any, especially considering how the throbbing need-want-now-_right_-now demand of his arousal kept him from thinking anything more complex than "robe-off" and "touch-me-touch-me-touch-me."

Harry couldn't stay still, squirming beneath Draco's heavy warm weight, arching into his touch, grinding their lower halves together in long, continuous twists of his hips while Draco slid his cool fingers underneath robes and jumper to get at skin, nails scratching against the taut muscles of Harry's stomach.

"Need you," Harry moaned. It caused Draco to jump against him, and the speed of his hips as they rocked frantically against Harry to increase.

"God!" Draco rolled the word out on a low cry that almost sounded pained.

Harry tightened his hold, lifted his head to recapture Draco's mouth (missing a few times but not minding too much the sidetrack of chin and cheek and lower lip) in a searing kiss, their tongues tangled together in a slip and slide of wet muscle, and increased his own pace. He couldn't help it. Couldn't wait. Couldn't think. Didn't want to. A particularly hard roll upwards finally made Draco tense in his arms, cries stolen briefly with breath and then released on a bone-deep groan as his orgasm burst.

Draco groaned long and loud, thinking "no, no, no, no, not yet," desperately while he came and came and came. When his body finally stopped convulsing he slumped on top of Harry and buried his head into Harry's neck. "Sorry," he sighed.

"Mmm. S'okay. Been too long." Harry's voice was tight, staccato bursts of slurred syllables that spoke even more eloquently of the closeness of his own orgasm than the short gasping breaths he was taking or still thrusting hips.

Draco slipped his arm between them, no longer bothering with the robes and things now that his own need had abated. He had to shift slightly to the side to angle his hand down Harry's trousers, past his pants, Harry wiggling and raising his hips to help.

The air was thick with the musty salty scent of sex, sauna thick, and Harry squirmed so nicely. A red blush painted his cheeks and lips, which were glistening from Harry's constant licking and just a little puffy from Draco's constant kissing, and Draco was sure, absolutely _positive_ he hadn't seen anything more erotic. Ever.

It was almost enough to bring him back to arousal, except it'd been a long eventual day and he was tired, and Harry was wailing between (and during) ragged moans of "don't stop, don't stop, don't ever ever stop" and "so good, so fucking good" and coming hard, his body nearly bowing in two with its force, that there wasn't time for it.

"Should have done this before, Fuck Pomfrey and hospital regulations." Harry said, or tried to anyway but it ended up a somewhat less coherent version thereof with Draco filling in the blanks.

He laughed breathlessly, and thought really…he had no complaints.

"That…was wonderful," Harry breathed. Once he could in fact breathe again.

"Abso-fucking-lutely amazing," Draco agreed sleepily, "next time will be even better."

"We should go celibate more often."

Draco tightened his grasp around Harry's waist warningly and burrowed closer. "You just try it, Potter, and I will not be held responsible for what evil may follow."

Harry laughed throatily and squeezed back. "Just a suggestion."

"Mmmm," Draco grunted in a way that managed to convey just what he thought of the suggestion.

Eventually they removed the rest of their clothing languidly with smooth dazed motions. Draco cleaned them both up with a discarded shirt, then balled it up and tossed it into the hamper with a precision born of habit. He smiled to himself, slow and lazy. Habit.

They climbed underneath the covers together and moved in synchrony to wrap their arms around each other, Harry automatically curving to fit back to chest with Draco his dark locks fluttering, brushing lightly against Draco's nose, under the rhythmic exhale of deep breathing, Draco's hands clasped protectively against Harry's stomach.

"Home," Harry whispered, his voice heavy with satisfaction. "Welcome home me."

Draco's answer was a soft sigh…Harry fell asleep listening to the rhythm of their hearts.

~Fin~


End file.
